


there's no place

by bummerang



Category: RWBY
Genre: Bonding, Gen, Oscar tries to steal Ozpin's cash, a much needed talk, episode 9 is coming out tomorrow but here's a late thing anyway, is it technically stealing if you're sharing a soul with the account holder?, spoilers: they're bad at it, v6 spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-28
Updated: 2018-12-28
Packaged: 2019-09-29 12:38:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17203556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bummerang/pseuds/bummerang
Summary: It turns out this whole reincarnation thing does come with some cash. Maybe.Oscar tries to access Ozpin's bank account through his scroll. It goes about as well as expected.





	there's no place

**Author's Note:**

> Episode 9 is tomorrow. I have no idea what I'm doing.

“If I chuck your scroll into the garbage, will you come out?”

 

It’s only hypothetical. Oscar wouldn’t actually throw it away, mostly because he knew he’d immediately feel guilty and go dive for it. Come to think of it, that was probably why Ozpin wasn’t reacting.

 

Besides the cane, the scroll was the only other thing of Ozpin’s Qrow had given over. Oscar had felt a slight ripple in their aura then; gentle, tentative. A pleased feeling mingled with something a little sad.

 

For something that clearly meant so much, it didn’t have as many things as he thought it would. He’d caught a few glimpses of it here and there when Ozpin felt nostalgic over it. A couple of pictures, faces that felt familiar to Oscar even though he didn’t know any of them (a picture of Ozpin with what was probably his old team, and Oscar had been stuck on it, because he looked almost happy, and impossibly young). Pages of old messages, some of them dated so far back that Oscar realized Ozpin must have transferred them over from old scrolls over the years, unwilling to let go.

 

And Oscar had just—known. That the cane was theirs, but the scroll belonged to _Ozpin_. Or whoever Ozpin used to be.

 

And whoever he used to be was definitely someone with money, but that didn’t mean anything if Oscar couldn’t get into the scroll to access it.

 

The password bar blinked at him mockingly.

 

It was a pastry. He knew that much. But he wasn’t really getting anywhere trying things like ‘white chocolate raspberry danish’ and ‘coconut filo roll’, and he was running out of fancy-sounding things he ‘remembered’ Ozpin liked. Not that it really mattered overall, maybe. The banks probably froze all of Ozpin’s accounts after Beacon’s fall. But they were still Oscar’s best chance at getting a ticket out of here.

 

Oscar gave up for the moment, pressing the tempered glass to his forehead. It was almost unbelievable that Oscar was stuck here with the same exact problem he had at the start. Loitering in a train station, no money, and a voice in his head that wouldn’t—

 

Oh.

 

It’s strange. Just a couple of days ago, he would have given just about anything to have his head back to himself. Ozpin was annoying. He always talked too much when he was lecturing, and not enough when he was explaining. He’d do embarrassing things when Oscar let him have control (his aunt would kill him if she knew how many chairs he’d jumped on), he always drank so much hot chocolate that afterwards Oscar would have to find something salty to balance his taste buds—

 

—and he numbed the pain of Oscar’s injuries after Haven. He tried to keep Oscar occupied by telling him dumb stories while they were stuck in bed (Oscar pretended to hate them, but thinking back, Ozpin must have known). He always asked for permission when he needed control. The only time he didn’t was with Hazel, and Oscar still hated it, but he got it.

 

(And with Jinn, but Oscar’s starting to get that, too. He remembers clenched hands in the snow, tears that wouldn’t quite dry in the cold air, and an ache in his heart—in their aura—that whispered softly, certainly, of failure.)

 

Oscar sighed, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes to stop the prickling. “If I apologize for all the times I told you to shut up,” he said, hating the way his voice shook, “would you come back and tell me what I should do?”

 

_You wouldn’t mean it._

 

Oscar screamed, biting his lip to cut it short when he realized what he was screaming at. But people were stopping to look at him anyway, curious and wary. “What’s wrong with you?” he hissed under his breath, too freaked out to be relieved, hastily grabbing his bag and scurrying off to a more secluded part of the station.

 

He felt something in their aura—an impression of gold hair and red eyes and _‘what’s wrong with you’_ echoing like an ache in his blood. He stopped.

 

“I didn’t—you know that’s not—could you just not do the jumpscare thing?”

 

For a moment, Oscar was afraid that Ozpin had left again—but then he felt it. Or didn’t.

 

His shoulders had been throbbing a little ever since he’d left the house. A slight pain, nothing he thought should worry him. He’d been trying to ignore it, hoping it’d go away in a couple of hours. He knew that using his aura would get it fixed up in no time, but for some reason it hadn’t worked. It slipped through like water every time he tried.

 

 _It takes concentration,_ Ozpin said quietly as the pain quickly bled out to nothing. _I’m sorry I wasn’t there. You didn’t deserve that._ A slight pause. _You don’t deserve any of this._

 

Oscar figured he should be angry. He was. But it was just—he’d spent _so long_ that way. Angry at this curse, at how little good he was doing, at Ozpin for leaving him alone with people who couldn’t see him for just—him.

 

But what could he have expected from Ozpin? He left because he thought it would be better, because it hurt to be here—and Oscar had done the same thing.

 

Oscar pulled self-consciously at the band on one of his gloves. “Why’d you come back?”

 

Ozpin didn’t immediately answer. When he did, he sounded tired. _We are, for better or worse, connected. I shouldn’t have left you alone the way I did,_ _no matter how I felt._

 

Still felt. Oscar knew it in the way their aura still hummed with grief over his children, over lifetimes forcibly shared with people who had done nothing awful to deserve him, all spent knowing _exactly_ what was wrong with him, what he was.

 

He’d never wanted any of this either.

 

And it was a little of everything—these past two days, these past three months and all the moments Oscar hated where he was, balanced against the parts that he knew had changed him—but mostly, Oscar was tired of anger. “I’m sorry about—I didn’t mean for all of that to happen. With Jinn.” He remembered snow melting and seeping to his knees, his head bowed, pleading screams echoing in every part of him to _stop, please, mommy daddy stop—_

 

If it had been Oscar in control, he wasn’t sure what he would have done. But just sitting there, waiting for every awful thing he _knew_ was going to happen (because it always did, every time)— “I shouldn’t have done that to you.”

 

He wasn’t expecting anything, because it wasn’t okay. None of this was, and it probably never would be. But he felt something in their aura just kind of—ease a bit. Loosen. It felt like a sigh.

 

_Coffee scone with chocolate rum buttercream._

 

Oscar blinked.

 

_That’s the password._

 

“Are you serious?”

 

_The ‘with’ is actually a ‘w’ with a slash mark in front of it—_

 

“You know I was trying to go home with this, right?”

 

_I do. But you’re not thinking of going home now._

 

That was true, but _wow_ that mind reading thing was annoying. “What are the chances I could sneak the relic off of Ruby?”

 

 _They aren’t astronomical,_ Ozpin said, some of that wryness coming back.

 

“What are the chances _you_ —“

 

 _Higher, but still a bit of a stretch._ There was a pause. _Are you certain that this is what you want to do?_

 

“You’re saying that like I have a choice. The relic has to go to Atlas, right? It’s not safe out here for just anyone to grab—“

 

 _I meant parting from the group_ , Ozpin interrupted softly. _Going alone._

 

Oscar hesitated, then shook his head. “I’m—I don’t _know_. I don’t—I was never really part of it anyway,” and his throat ached with the truth of it. _‘How do we know we haven’t been talking to that liar this whole time?’_ washed over them both, and he felt their aura shiver as if it was Ozpin doing so. “I’m not a huntsman. I’m just a kid from nowhere sharing a soul with someone who thinks ‘chocolate danish with some fancy cream’ is a good password.”

 

 _I put a great deal of thought into that password_ , Ozpin said, and it sounded like maybe he was smiling. But their aura remained low, and it was almost like a breath being held. _You don’t give yourself enough credit, you know. You’ve done far more than anyone could reasonably expect of you. And there is nothing reasonable about any of this._

 

Oscar felt their aura lighten, rising. And he remembered—

 

No, _Ozpin_ remembered. When Oscar landed his first, purposeful hit on Ruby on their fifth training session. The surprise when Oscar had stood against Hazel, defending the importance of his sister’s will to choose. When Oscar charged the manitcore on the train, faster than he’d been when he’d tried fighting Lionheart, instincts sharper and clearer as he held his own. How far he’d come from that evening he’d screamed in his room, trying to ignore the voice in his head.

 

It took Oscar a moment to realize it was pride.

 

But still, even in all that, Oscar felt the underlying regret. Because it had taken Oscar leaving home to achieve what he had. Because he’d been forced to. Because he’d never asked for any of this.

 

_I’m—_

 

“—you don’t have to be,” Oscar said, because it wasn’t right to be sorry about everything. It just—couldn’t be. “I know you are anyway, but—“ He thought about how quickly these last few months had gone by, how much he’d changed, how he wasn’t quite a farm kid anymore—and there was _this_ , at least. “We both know I didn’t want to be on that farm forever.”

 

Oscar felt their aura go completely still. The silence felt hesitant.

 

And then—a single ripple, like an involuntary sigh. It felt—maybe relieved. Maybe hopeful.

 

“Oscar!”

 

It’s Jaune’s voice, and Oscar couldn’t help the flinch. He turned just as Jaune stopped dead several feet away, looking like he realized charging at the kid he’d slammed into a wall just a few hours ago was probably not the best idea.

 

Oscar knew he was sorry from his expression, but he could still feel those hands on his shirt, trapping him. He remembered how Jaune towered over him, screaming everything Oscar had been afraid of, and all he’d wanted to do was disappear so that this would all stop.

 

He wanted to run again. But there was an almost physical impression in his aura then, like a hand gently pressed to his shoulder. No pressure, no force. Just warmth and support.

 

Behind Jaune, Oscar saw the others, running with alarming speed—but not as fast as the blur of rose petals that shot past them, falling away as Ruby stumbled to a halt beside Jaune. She looked at Oscar speechless, like she hadn’t expected to find him at all.

 

In his mind, he felt Ozpin draw away. Oscar couldn’t have that.

 

It was—a thought. Just one, simple thought. And their aura responded. It felt a little like he was holding onto it, like fingers just barely catching the edge of a sleeve. And it seemed to work because Ozpin stopped.

 

“You _said_ ,” Oscar muttered beneath his breath, reminding Ozpin through the sudden memory of five people standing over him, of waiting in the snow for judgment as bitter as the frost that had bit into his skin. “For better or worse, right?” He thought about gripping that sleeve tighter. “It can’t be worse if we’re together on this.”

 

Ozpin didn’t say anything, but Oscar felt the impression of a hand settling on his shoulder again, tentative at first, then firm. It was warmer this time.

 

Their aura still held ripples of uncertainty, of fear, but Oscar didn’t want to run anymore, and Ozpin was staying.

 

They could work with that.

 

-

 


End file.
